The Truth and Other Lies: A Novel

by Sascha Arango

  In his mind’s eye, Henry saw that she’d taken the right road. “The pylons lead you straight here.”

  Betty looked at the GPS device. “The GPS only shows a dotted road. Two point nine miles to go. Is that possible?”

  “You’re doing fine. Keep straight on till you get to the water. It’s an old harbor. That’s the name of the restaurant: Old Harbor. You’re really close. Have you got my manuscript with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Great. Shall I order you a drink?”

  “No alcohol for me, thanks. OK, see you soon.”

  Betty put the phone on top of her notebook computer and Henry’s manuscript in the open handbag beside her. She’d had a good feeling when she left work to meet Henry for dinner. The first step toward reconciliation with Honor Eisendraht had been taken. Malicious it may have been, but Eisendraht’s betrayal had had a purgative effect. She’d done Betty a real favor, even if it couldn’t have been her intention. The ultrasound images had brought the silly secretiveness to an end. No affair is worth denying a child for.

  The potholes in the road were getting deeper and deeper. Betty reined in the speed. Rust-ravaged metal containers lay dotted around on the side of the road. Here and there she saw shreds of truck tires. Fountains of dust flew up in the air like powder. She tried to drive in the ruts of the broad tire tracks that had been washed out by the rain and baked into rock-hard furrows by the sun.

  The more slowly she drove, the more interminable and absurd the trip seemed to her. But Henry had always had a good nose for remote and stunningly beautiful places. Betty remembered Es Verger on the Puig de Alaró on Majorca. Henry had driven doggedly upward; the engine had shrieked; the car had creaked and clattered. “We’ll get there at some point,” he said, and she had trusted him. After an endless ascent on a narrow, winding road, they had finally reached the mother of all mountain restaurants and eaten the most delicious lamb of their lives. It was that night the baby had been conceived, Betty was quite sure of it.

  A sign appeared in the distance. It stood half-sunken on rusty steel posts, almost illegible from so much dust and sun. Betty could make out what looked like a fishing boat and in faded letters “. . . Harbor.” That must be it. Her GPS showed she was less than half a mile away. In rough outline the display showed an oblong site on the seafront. “In seven hundred feet you will reach your destination. You are approaching your destination.” A metal fence surrounded the place. The ugly concrete frontage of an industrial building came into view and seagulls sat on skeletal cranes.

  Betty passed through the open gate at a crawl and followed the concrete slabs that were overgrown with weeds. Heaps of windblown rubbish were piled up. Yellow and blue plastic drums rolled around in the wind. A putrid smell hung over everything. Betty let the car roll up to a waist-high wall, where a sign in faded paint read NO ACCESS. She stopped the car, got out, and looked around her.

  “Follow the arrows,” chirped the GPS.

  The terrace was bathed in red evening light. More guests had sat down. A woman was just being led past Henry’s table. He followed her tanned ankles in their backless heels. Henry’s phone buzzed.

  “Betty, where are you?”

  “I’ve ended up in a rubbish dump and there’s a ‘No Access’ sign in front of me. Is this supposed to be a joke? There’s no restaurant here.”

  “Then you’re standing in front of a wall, right?”

  “Yes, and I’m not driving any further. It’s really spooky here.”

  Henry laughed. “Just ignore the sign. Keep driving a bit. I’ll come to meet you.”

  His laughter reassured her. After a brief hesitation Betty got back in the car and drove slowly along the ugly wall. She kept the phone at her ear. She could hear his steady breathing. After a hundred feet the countryside opened out on her left and the sea came into view.

  “OK, I’m right by the water now. There’s a hangar here. There are dustbins and old rail tracks all over the place. No one in sight, no car. Where are you?”

  “On my way to you. Stop next to the hangar. I’ll be there in a second.”

  Betty stopped the car next to the hangar; its enormous door stood open like the jaws of a crocodile. The dust on the windows reflected the light so brightly that she couldn’t make out what might be hidden in the darkness within.

  “The restaurant’s not in there, is it?”

  “I can see you, Betty. Get out, turn around, can you see me?”

  Betty opened the car door and got out. A cold wind blew out of the darkness of the hangar. She clutched the phone in her fist and peered around.

  “Henry, where are you?”

  18

  Jenssen liked statistics. Like most of his colleagues he was of course acquainted with the annual crime stats. Numbers tell stories. Especially if you compare them with one another—for instance, the fact that in Germany in 2009 precisely 38,117 women underwent facial laser treatment compared with 42,623 German men over the same period of time. “What does that tell us?” Jenssen liked to ask whenever he cited such figures in the police headquarters’ canteen.

  Homicide offenses, counting both murder and manslaughter, had gone down by 2.2 percent compared with the previous year. The rate of solving crimes had now reached 95.9 percent, which throws a good light on the investigative work of the authorities and a bad light on the acumen of your average perpetrator of violence. It would seem that the almost one hundred percent likelihood of being convicted of murder and severely punished is regarded by most offenders as acceptable. Maybe for the simple reason that it’s only almost one hundred percent, and because the statistics don’t affect them personally—just the others. And not least because crime statistics provide information about detected murders, while the undetected ones, not to say the successful ones, remain in the paradise of darkness. Thus it can be assumed with a kind of foreboding that the coming years will see a similar percentage of murders committed and punished.

  Martha Hayden’s death by drowning had for Jenssen been a classic case of death by misadventure, because there was no motive or evidence pointing to anything else. The bike on the beach convinced him. It had convinced everyone. And yet “fatal swimming accident” was only a hypothesis, based solely on the discovery of the bicycle—a discovery made by her husband of all people. Purely hypothetically, the bike on the beach allowed the conclusion that the owner had been kidnapped by aliens and was now having a whale of a time with underage exomorphs on board their spaceship. Why not?

  The disappearance of Bettina Hansen, a thirty-four-year-old editor at Moreany Publishing House, however, was no accident. It certainly wasn’t suicide either. A coast guard helicopter had sighted the burning car wreck at about 10:00 p.m. on a routine nightly flight. By the time the fire department had arrived forty-five minutes later, they could only smother the glowing plastic car parts with foam. This foam destroyed valuable evidence in the immediate vicinity of the wrecked car. The arson squad did not find the remains of a human body.

  An hour after the beginning of the early shift, Jenssen arrived on the site of the derelict fish factory. It had been out of use for a decade and made him think of an apocalyptic seaside resort on the Costa Brava. Every muscle in his body was aching because he’d tried to catch up on three weeks of missed training in the gym the evening before. In spite of 1,500 milligrams of ibuprofen he couldn’t walk properly. He could only waddle sideways, his arms dangling like an orangutan’s.

  The powder-fine white dust had turned into gray mush in the extinguishing foam around the car. Jenssen’s colleagues from the forensic unit were crawling around in it, looking for a trace of blood or hair, for vestiges of body fat or bone ash. Jenssen blessed his farsightedness in deciding at the beginning of his career not to work in forensics. Not because he found the work dull or pointless—no, the tedious thing was that the clues tended to be microscopic. You found a hair and it assumed the dimensions of a tree trunk. For Jenssen, poking around in the nanosphere like that took aw
ay the sensuous pleasures of detection.

  Jenssen paced out the distance to the sea, counting forty-two steps. Abandoned rail tracks led down a slightly sloping concrete road into the water, where the skeletons of old freight cars had been left to rust—cars that had once been used to haul cargo from the cutters up onto land, in the good old days when there were still fish.

  After a fruitless search the tracker dogs were loaded back into the van. A few police officers were still snorkeling in the reinforced shore area. Naval divers had been sent for and were expected in the course of the afternoon. They wouldn’t find anything either, Jenssen was convinced of that. He sat down on the tire of a heavy goods vehicle that had already received forensic treatment, and did some surreptitious stretching exercises to regain control of his upper arms. He was sure they would find neither a corpse, nor evidence of the perpetrators, nor indeed anything that might help solve the crime. Once again he took out the crumpled-up fax paper from his pocket and read the transcript of the emergency call.

  At 9:16 p.m. Henry Hayden had dialed the emergency number of the police on his phone. First he had asked whether a road accident had been reported. Then Hayden had related that Bettina Hansen, an editor from his publishing house, had not turned up at their arranged meeting place with the original manuscript of his latest novel. He said that she had called him twice on her way there. Once to ask the way, a second time to tell him she’d be late. He’d been trying to call her for hours, but it hadn’t been possible to get hold of her. The dispatcher on the emergency services line told Henry that no one had reported an accident and that it was still too early for a missing-person search. Entirely correct procedure. Jenssen was sure that an examination of the phone company’s records would confirm Hayden’s statements as to length of call and location.

  ———

  It was the proliferation of similarities that he found so remarkable. Two women had gone missing in less than a month—both of them closely connected with Hayden. One of them he was married to, the other he worked with. But, Jenssen wondered, wouldn’t everyone have called the police in this situation? Also striking was the fact that both women had disappeared altogether—not a single trace, not a hair, not a particle to be found. Martha Hayden was a practiced swimmer. Her death was plausible. No one can get the better of a strong current. But how could a healthy, sensible woman like this editor manage to get quite so lost? It was three miles of cratered, dusty road from the coastal road to here. No sign, no signpost, and no GPS entry indicated a restaurant in this wilderness. And what had happened to her corpse?

  Jenssen got up and waddled past his colleagues to the hangar. He took five steps into the darkness, then turned round and yelled, “Help!”

  They all stopped in sync and looked around—but no one could see him. Only five paces away and yet invisible, Jenssen noted. This was probably the exact spot where the murderer had come from.

  ———

  After the fifth futile call, Honor Eisendraht phoned a taxi and had it take her straight from the office to Moreany’s villa. She entered the old park through the garden gate and pressed the bell at the front door until she got a cramp in her index finger. Then she walked around the house and entered the library through the open veranda door. Filled with anxiety, she searched all over the big house. Countless rooms were empty or crammed with books and boxes. She called his name; she listened out.

  In the end she found Moreany in his bedroom on the second floor. He was lying on his side in his enormous box-spring bed, his face covered in sweat. Long seconds passed between one breath and the next. She saw an open packet of prescription morphine beside him. There were three ten-milligram tablets missing. She turned Moreany onto his back. He opened his eyes, gasping for breath, recognized her, and smiled. She fetched water, carefully poured it into his mouth, helped him onto his feet, and supported him as he staggered to the bathroom. Moreany was clearly in pain. He was so weak that she had to hold on to him as he sat on the lavatory.

  Four cups of coffee later he was a little better. He looked into her anxious face.

  “I already know. Henry rang me last night. The novel’s lost too.”

  “Lost?” Honor held her hands to her mouth in horror.

  “Betty had the manuscript with her in the car.”

  “No! Isn’t there a copy? He must have made a copy.”

  Moreany shook his head. “He always writes on a typewriter. I’ve seen the manuscript. This is the end, Honor. And if you want to cry now, be a dear and fetch me my English shortbread first.”

  Honor found the cookie tin he had described in a pantry full of delicacies that had gone bad. Everything was covered in cloths spun from the finest insect secretions—Spanish ham coated in a blue lawn of mold, mummified sausages, shriveled fruit, dangerously bulging tins, the shelves interconnected by a myriad of bored tunnels. No doubt about it, the house was lacking a woman’s touch. Honor hardly dared to open the cookie tin, but to her relief the cookies inside were perfectly edible.

  “Did you see the vultures on the roof, Honor, my dear? I hope they’re vegetarian. I don’t know how much longer I can hang on.”

  Moreany had spoken tenderly to her for the first time. Honor took his hand and pressed it. He munched a biscuit with relish. “Now, my little honorific,” he said, and closed his eyes, “give me the good news. Is there any?”

  ———

  The small three-room apartment was neat and tidy. There was a faint smell of lily-of-the-valley and of the freshly washed laundry that was hanging on a clotheshorse in the living room. Jenssen made his way through the rooms, looking at the furniture, the small collection of Venetian glass, the clothes and shoes. A large black-and-white portrait of Betty hung on the wall. It showed her in semiprofile with the light shining on her blond hair, and it reminded Jenssen of the 1940s Hollywood star Lana Turner. He took a photo of it with his cell phone. In the kitchen the breakfast dishes were still on the table. An apple with a bite out of it lay next to an open newspaper, and a magnetic calendar was stuck to the fridge. There was a date circled. “Gynecologist” was written beside it in felt-tip pen. Jenssen glanced at his watch. The appointment was today.

  On the small desk in Betty’s bedroom Jenssen found some photographs. In a few pictures he could recognize Henry Hayden. The pictures had obviously been taken at readings or literary festivals. Jenssen couldn’t find a computer, but there was a modem, evidence that she had Internet access. On a pile of manuscripts lay the blank car-insurance claim. The insurance company had already ticked the box for theft and identified the car model. Jenssen was aware that Betty Hansen had reported her car stolen without being able to produce the keys. He also knew that she had rented a car with Henry Hayden’s credit card. The question was, why?

  Jenssen liked walking through the rooms in dead people’s homes. There was a macabre reverence about it, like an atheist in church solemnly contemplating God’s absence. A pair of shoes next to a sofa, slipped off with the intention of tidying them away at the next opportunity, could be so tragic. A book left open on a bed was a stopped clock, every calendar entry a message from the hereafter.

  In the melancholy grip of these relics, Jenssen reflected on the unknown woman who had lived there. Even before discovering her portrait on the wall, Jenssen had suspected that she had been Henry Hayden’s lover. She was well suited to him. She was young and beautiful, obviously educated and successful, and she worked closely with him—most marriages and clandestine affairs begin in the world of work. It was only another vague hypothesis, a hunch, but Jenssen believed that the deaths of the two women were in some mysterious way connected and could be explained by a single motive.

  Henry Hayden had not killed Betty Hansen. So much was now certain. He had without question the best alibi in the world. He had waited for her in a public restaurant in full view of everyone. He had even spoken to her on the phone. The old-fashioned telephone on Betty’s desk began to ring. Jenssen jumped. After some hesitation he picked it up
. It was the receptionist from Dr. Hallonquist’s gynecological practice, kindly calling with a reminder of Betty’s next appointment.

  “When?”

  “This afternoon at three.”

  ———

  Henry saw the police car in the parking lot. The radio antenna was discreetly attached to the rear of the vehicle, but not quite discreetly enough. He said hello to the old porter and asked after his long-suffering rheumatic wife. She was as ever in a wretched way. Then he took the stairs to the fourth floor to lend some credibility to his quickened pulse.

  Honor Eisendraht came to meet him in the corridor as if she’d been waiting for him. Her eyes were reddened, her hairdo was a little disheveled. She was wearing a coal-gray suit in keeping with the atmosphere. “The police are here,” she whispered to Henry. “There are three of them and they’re questioning everyone. They’ve sealed off Betty’s office. Moreany’s in a very bad way. How could all this happen?”

  “Have you had your turn yet, Honor?”

  “I’m next. After they’ve finished with Moreany. Henry, is the novel really lost?”

  He nodded gravely. “I can reconstruct it from my notes, but it will take a long time. If Betty’s dead, then it’s lost.”

  “Do you think she might still be alive then?”

  Henry saw her lips trembling. Moved, he took Ms. Eisendraht in his arms and stroked her back. “As long as Betty’s corpse hasn’t been found, I won’t believe she’s dead.” They extricated themselves from the embrace. Honor wiped away her tears.

  “Mr. Hayden, you don’t think it was me, do you?”

  “That what was you?”

  “I didn’t send those ultrasound pictures.”

  “You? For heaven’s sake, no, never in my wildest dreams would I believe that! Do you know what I think? I think it was the child’s father.”

  When Henry entered the room, Moreany’s police interview was already over. The three detectives stood in the room like the last pieces in a game of chess. Gray in the face and unshaven, Moreany was sitting in the Eames chair. He was too weak to get up, and just waved.